Tendrils Are Green
by Dominique Sotto
Summary: Updated: SWTOR Valentine's Day 2015! I couldn't get over the unintended hilarity of the game mechanics, so I wrote this to get it out of my head and stop laughing so hard I can't play the game. It's tiny! It's funny! It has no spoilers! It's worth a read! Well, maybe... at least to check your sense of humor against mine! Maybe I am just batty.
1. Chapter 1

Tendrils Are Green

An unusually tall woman – think REAL tall, green skin, aggressive tattoos, purple eyes- in a shiny white plate pressed her back into the wall, surveying the situation around the corner. The traps and the cords in her neck stood out as she strained to see. "Four hostiles, Sgt. Jorgan. Three o'clock is yours. On my mark!"

She tapped out the count on her rock-solid quad, thick as a Hutt: "Three, two, one, GO!" Her companion made it around her with a predatory grace and opened fire. She stepped behind him, rolled a gigantic canon in front of her, leaned back, braced herself and let the pulse sweep over the screaming Black Sun thugs. The metal and plastic burned noxiously when the returning blaster fire hit the white armor, but the woman stood her ground, unwavering. To follow the pulse, the explosive charges from her cannon poured over the knaves. One of them lost his nerve in the roaring flames, and peeled from the group to try to cut through with a vibrosword, away from the towering maiden. His luck held long enough for him to leave a nasty scratch on Aric's armor, but it got lost immediately between its many mates. Aric took the butt of his rifle to the man's head, crushing a side of his skull into bloody pulp. There was more than battle fury in his gesture. There was a palpable frustration.

"Target's down, Lt. Dur," Aric growled at his CO.

"Acquire the supplies," she commanded briskly, avoiding his strange eyes (think an improbable angle, shooting upwards at the corners; but not improbable with his cheekbones). Aric hesitated for a fraction of a moment.

"We are the BEST of the BEST!" She yelled at him. "We are the HAVOC SQUAD! We can do it!"

"YES, SIR!" Aric yelled back, without moving an inch.

"Damn it, Aric! If your CO tells you to go get the damned thing, you damn well get the DAMN THING! Now HOP TO IT!"

"Yes, Sir," Aric muttered and charged a huge pot of dirt with a vengeance. It was topped by a dainty vine studded with some bright orange flowers. Growling, the fierce Cathar warrior pulled the plant out, showering the CO's white armor with dirt in the process.

"The potted plant is ours, Sir! HURRAY!"

"Loose the root bulb!" Lt. Dur replied dryly.

"Understood, Sir," Aric said and a dangerous growl rose in his throat, "NO ROOT BULBS, SiIR!" He snapped the stem off. It broke, but did not give, a bundle of green strings holding it together. Aric ripped his service dagger out of the sheath, and slashed at the enemy viciously. The steel severed the stubborn greenery. He threw the roots back over his shoulder, fixing Glean Dur with an incinerating stare. Glean noted that the seemingly casually tossed roots hit the now empty pot square in the middle. He thrust the fragrant mass of green and orange into her arms: "Your flowers, SIR!"

Lt. Dur held the armful of the leaves and petals to her chest. The orange of the blooms set off the purple of her eyes, and the green of her skin. She took a careful sniff. "Well done, Sergeant Jorgan! Why I have half a mind to put you up for a medal."

Then Glean squeezed the blooms into her pack, crushing the whole thing into green goo.

"For the Republic! Move, move, MOVE!"

The potted plants and villainy all over Coruscant shook in their boots and planters.

/

"You requested to view the surveillance tapes showing anomalous behavior of the Havoc Squad, my Lord?"

Becchino nodded: "Must I repeat myself, Lieutenant?" With a crisp bow, Lieutenant started the recording. Becchino watched Glean Dur and Aric Jorgan's assault on the potted plant in silence. Then she turned to her subordinate: "Thoughts, Lieutenant?" Malavai Quinn paused. "I analysed the actions of the Squad, my Lord, and I nearly eliminated courting behavior. The possibility is still there, but I am inclined to believe that the plants may have a medicinal value. " Becchino nodded: "Republic scum is always searching for the ways to upstage us. Lieutenant, I want you to-" Quinn bowed again: "Of course, my Lord. From now on, I shall most carefully examine the local plant specimens. _If_ you think that's the best use of me." Becchino slowly turned her head and looked her Lieutenant up and down. Unreadable. Again.

"Stick to collecting scraps, Lieutenant. It suits you."


	2. Out of the Box

**Outside the Box**

Lt. Glean Dur scanned the location. "Wait, Sergeant," she said. "Waaaait…. Yes! See it! NOW, JORGAN! CHARGE!"

Sgt. Aric Jorgan exploded into action. He dropped to the floor and rolled past two elegantly attired Jedi; slipped between the legs of an enormous Knight, all hooded to hide the hideous scars; and shouldered a perky Twi'lek aside. "Carful there, pal!" a couple of smoky-eyed youths with braided hair chorused immediately, "that's a lady here." "Chill, Corso, I can take care of myself," the Twi'lek muttered and kicked at Jorgan's shins. A dusky looking stranger tapped the second braided one on the shoulder: "Hey, pay attention. I know it's hard, I know she's got breasts and everything…." He did a double take on the still smoldering Twi'lek. "Yeah, everything…."

The Sergeant ignored it, for he spotted his prize.

"I AM IN! ORDERS, SIR?!"

"GO!" Lt. Glean yelled above the din.

Jorgan shouldered his rifle and shot the cover off the mailbox. Ignoring the collective sigh of annoyance from the crowd, he pulled a bunch of padded envelopes out and waved them at Glean. Most of them bore a wide variety of Trading Network stamps and '_return to sender_' stickers.

"There is also a BOX, SIR!" He yelled, with a hint of surprise evident to a very, very attentive listener.

"Then GET IT, Sergeant! NOW! We're due to board for Taris at TWENTY-O-HUNDRED!" Glean shouted back.

Aric made a quick egress back to Lt. Dur. The box looked official, so the Lt. immediately cracked it open and the two of them peeked in.

"WHAT IN BLAZES, is THIS, Lt.?!"  
"Careful, Sgt. Careful… set it down… gently now… It could EXPLODE!"  
"WHAT?!"  
"WHO?!"  
"WHY?!"

/  
"More abnormalities in the surveillance, Lieutenant?" Lord Becchino asked softly when Malavai Quinn saluted her on the Bridge.

"Captain, My Lord," Malavai corrected quietly.

"Captain… what?" the Sith asked brusquely.

"My rank, My Lord. Perhaps you recall that I was promoted when we departed Balmorra. By Lord Barras," Malavai said the name respectfully.

Becchino gave her subordinate an amused look. "Do you suggest that I have missed this monumental occasion, Lieutenant?"

"No, My Lord. I merely… my remark was redundant, My Lord. Do you wish to review the records?" Malavai hoped that the tan that the harsh Tatooine suns bestowed on him made the color that rose to his cheeks less obvious.  
Becchino watched the holo in silence. Lt. Dur and her crony were testing a miniature astromech droid.

"Do you think the size makes it more adaptable, Lieutenant? It is still too large to be an effective spying device."

"My Lord, the droid does not have any practical functionality, as far as I can tell," Malavai replied.

"You have learned that from examining the holorecord? You are slipping, Lieutenant. Dur is not stupid enough to demonstrate the abilities of this new machine on the Fleet."

"No, My Lord. I examined the device personally, and at some length," Malavai reported matter-of-factly.

"You secured the device from Dur? From the heart of the Republic's military base?" Becchino asked.

Captain Quinn bowed: " I have my methods, My Lord."

"Well, I am impressed, Captain," Becchino's gorgeous Sith ridges moved upward a little. Quinn swallowed. He was walking on a thin ice, but it was worth it.

"So, what is it?"

"Unfortunately, My Lord, it is but a pet," Captain Quinn replied.

Becchino shook her head in disbelief. "A… a what?!"

"A pet, my Lord, " Captain Quinn repeated, then elaborated: "A small creature many sentients keep for pleasure, rather than utility. If you wish you could examine it yourself. You would come to the same conclusions as I did: the droid has no functionality, but to follow you around faithfully and look… adorable. "

"Ah, something like Slave?" Becchino pondered aloud. Captain Quinn did not feel it was his place to argue about Vette's position and purpose. His own was precarious enough. So he took the little droid out of the box, set it down by Lord Becchino's feet and left the Bridge.

On the way back he could not resist throwing a look behind his shoulder. The Sith Lord stood, frowning, her muscular arms folded across her chest. She stared intently at the small droid scuttling by her feet. Then she squatted down, extended her hand to touch the droid, and quickly pulled it away. And that's when she felt him looking. She lifted her head to stare back at him; her eyes started to glow. Captain Quinn's heart sank.

"Captain! Come back… deal with this… this… thing. Take it! Feed it… or… or something," if it were any other woman, Captain Quinn would have called her tone pleading. He allowed himself a short while to enjoy before responding with a deferential: "As you wish, My Lord."

All and all, he was exceedingly glad that the Sith Lords never checked their own mail.


	3. A Face Borrowed

_AN: Dusk Fell was the first character I created, but she got shouldered out of the way and ended up stuck on Dromund Kaas for now. I used the same format as the other Lord Becchino stories, to contrast her experiences with Dusk Fell's. **Spoilers:** Imperial Agent, the very second Class conversation… very slight!_

_In this country, who isn't a pretender?_

_from Tzars' Hunt_

"A _pirate_? Called _Red Blade_?!" Agent Dusk Fell exclaimed incredulously. "You can't be serious, Handler! I don't look an inch like a Red Blade!"

Jheeg responded with a long suffering pinch to his wide mouth. "But… Miss. Nobody knows the gender, species or appearance of the subject. It's perfect."

"Perfect?" Dusk Fell repeated, "perfect?!"

The Handler's eyes took on a sorrowful glint, as he strained to grasp the problem. Dusk Fell sighed: "Do all of us look the same to you, is that it?"

"Well…" Jheeg shrugged.

The Agent jabbed her finger into Jheeg's chest: "You listen to me then! A Red Blade brings to mind someone looking like a huge brute, a loud, obnoxious, bragging, half-drunk oaf! Whose one prized possession is a honking large vibrosword!"

Jheeg blinked.

"I am five foot tall on sensible heels!"

Jheeg sighed.

I am armed with a riffle!"

Jheeg licked his lips.

"I am a _Chiss_, Jheeg, a _Chiss!_ Can't we go with a _Blue_, erm… blue… something?"

Jheeg blinked again. "No, Miss, your papers are drafted for Red-"

Agent Dusk Fell slapped her fist on his desk, making him jump.

"Red… red can refer to your eyes, Miss," Jheeg suggested pulling his collar away from his scrawny neck.

"And the blade is my vibroknife, I suppose?" Dusk Fell asked quietly.

"Yes, yes…" Jheeg nodded enthusiastically, missing the acid in her tone.

She snaked across the table, grabbed his shirt, twisted and pulled him nose to nose with her. "Jheeg… Do. You. Have. Anything. Else."

"There is… there is this prostitute—" Jheeg stammered.

"I can work with this," Dusk Fell nodded, releasing him.

"..turned a pit-fighter…" Jheeg continued slumping back into his chair.

Dusk Fell frowned: "Perhaps…"

"a Twi'lek…" he said, leafing through a file on his desk.

Dusk Fell's exasperated breath almost blew him out of the doors. "You have a magic lekku growing paste?"

Jheeg wisely kept his mouth shut as Dusk Fell paced his tiny office.

She pulled her dark shades off. She drew her service knife from its secret sheath. Jheeg whimpered, but Dusk Fell simply attached it to the chain around her neck to display it prominently.

"Yo, mate, me cover gets blown, ye goin' t'dance out of me airlock," the Agent Dusk Fell… no, _Red Blade_ said, stomping towards the orange swamps of Hutta. There was a new swagger to her step, and Jheeg would have sworn that she loomed over things despite the diminutive height and insignificant bulk.

/

"My Lord?" Captain Quinn appealed for her attention. Lord Becchino turned from her contemplation of the Galaxy Map.

"Report," she commanded brusquely.

"Your agent is planted," Captain reported. There was a small something in her subordinate's tone that made her… curious.

"_More_ abnormalities, Captain?" Becchino loathed having to ask.

Captain Quinn hesitated: "No, my Lord. However, the cover story is not the most successful. The Agent might have difficulties adhering to it."

Ah. "Captain, I suggest you research the meaning of the word _dispensable_, and then type it a hundred times," Lord Becchino quietly suggested and turned back to the map.

Captain Quinn bowed to her back. "Of course, my Lord. I will bring my work for _your_ review once I am finished."

Lord Becchino barked through her gritted teeth: "Unnecessary, Captain."

A wishful thinking, that.


	4. Rank and File

_AN: Started writing the next one, and woops, saw this one never got added. Not that it's funny, but I finally captured the background and the complicated Legacy connections._

**Rank and File**

Sgt. Jorgan made a soft growl deep in his throat after leaving the Olaris Base on Taris, and muttered something under his breath.

"CUT THE CHATTER IN THE RANKS!" yelled Lt. Dur.

"YES, SIR!" Sgt. Jorgan glowered at her.

Lt. Dur rolled her eyes: "Fine! Out with it, Sgt. Jorgan!"

Jorgan clicked his heels to attention: "Sgt. Dorne is a DRY RULE-LOVING SHREW, SIR!"

"At ease!" Glean Dur relaxed a little herself, and a twinkle appeared in her eyes. "Ah, you found your dream girl, Sergeant. Good for you!"

"With respect, Sir, she's more your type," Jorgan ribbed back.

Glean blanched: "Stove it, Jorgan."

"YES, SIR!" the Cathar's growl cowed a couple of distressed settlers across the street.

Lt. Dur shook her head. "I am sorry, Sergeant, I should not have made a personal comment."

Jorgan shrugged: "Lieutenant, if I can get under your skin this easily, imagine what a skilled Imp interrogator would do."

"BLAZES, I _am_ compromised!" Lt. Dur's curled her lip stubbornly. "I must box it, and FAST."

"Box what?" Sgt. Jorgan insisted. "Learn to talk about it, hear about it, or you will crack."

"I am a widow," Lt. Dur replied dully. "As of last week."

"A quiet man is a dangerous man, Captain," Lord Becchino said as she took the Fury class starship out of the fray.

bowed: "I live to serve, My Lord."

"Never forget that," she replied. Captain Quinn was almost certain his Lord was amused.

"Anything new on Dur?" Lord Becchino inquired.

"No, my Lord," Captain Quinn hesitated. Lord Becchino did seem in good spirits after vanquishing Thana Vesh and bringing on board that oaf, Lt. Pierce. "One… one question, if I may?"

The Sith Lord looked at him for a moment and, indeed, nodded.

"Why Dur, my Lord? She is but a minor player in the Republic's military," Captain Quinn tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible, so as to avoid any hint of criticism.

"You are getting bolder, Captain," Lord Becchino commented casually, and leaned back in the pilot's chair, folding her muscular arms across her chest.

"That's bold for him? Ha! I want to see him timid then!" Lieutenant Pierce roared up a laugh.

Becchino smiled indulgently at the huge man: "Subtlety and cowardice could be hard to distinguish, Lieutenant. But necessary for one to advance through the ranks."

As Pierce's merriment died down, Lord Becchino turned back to Quinn: "Captain, I keep tabs on everyone who intends to kill me. Dur swore to it publically."

"She is a fool then," Pierce guffawed. "You, my Lord, are a winner."

"The world is full of fools," Lord Becchino responded to his overt flattery, but kept looking straight at Captain Quinn. "I must have killed someone of hers."

"Her husband," Captain Quinn supplied readily.

"Wasting my time is a dangerous hobby, Captain," Lord Becchino's voice dropped to near whisper, as she fixed him with another stare. "You _are_ growing bolder."

Captain Quinn bowed politely. Pierce's bushy brows pulled together in a show of concentration.

"I approve," Lord Becchino announced and rose in a slow, deliberate way. She walked to the Bridge doors, stretching her legs after the long space battle. She turned right before stepping over the threshold, so tall the top of her head nearly brushed the frame. "...to a point, Captain," and with that Lord Becchino walked off the Bridge, leaving her minions alone.

"Watch it, pal," Pierce barked, a threat evident in his voice. Quinn gave him a blank look, while he suppressed the taste of fear in his throat. This walk along the edge of the lightsabre, the test he'd just passed was necessary. Now, he could attend to the interloper.

"A word of advice, Lieutenant. Mark the Lord's words: The world is full of fools, indeed. If I might elaborate on this important thought, all of them are occupants of shallow graves."

"Are you threatening me?!" Lieutenant's eyes narrowed.

"A timid man like me? Why, never…" Captain Quinn smiled coldly and held a calculated pause. Then, he asked pointedly: "Have you ever exercised your curiosity enough to find out the meaning of our Lord's name? No? I will supply it for you, Lieutenant. It reads Becchino…."

Pierce glared. "We, the low ranks, managed to grasp that much."

Captain Quinn ignored him: "It stands for Gravedigger."

He dropped his voice to near whisper, just like his Lord beforehand, forcing Pierce to lean in to hear: "whose graves, I wonder?"


	5. A Damsel in Distress

**A Damsel in Distress**

"Sgt. Jorgan, REPORT!" Dur yelled.

"Mission accomplished, SIR!" Sgt. Jorgan lugged a huge crate with six small bars of metal in it through the hangar bay's doors.

"By an incredibly happy coincidence this just came in the mail. The batty woman Dusk Fell still can't get the address straight. If that's how the rest of the Imperial Intelligence runs the business, this war will be over before we know it!" Lt. Dur produced a few twisted pieces still recognizable as a speeder parts from her small shoulder pack and tossed it into the crate.

"Hmm. We are missing something here to make a new chestguard…" Lt. Dur scrolled feverishly through a tiny datapad.

"A cauldron, Sir?" Sgt. Jorgan scowled.

"At ATTENTION!" Lt. Dur yelled more out of habit than out of genuine desire for the Sgt. to shut up his smart mouth.

"What could it possibly be?" She mused and scratched her head. A small cloud of green smoke erupted when she did it and coated her head. Glean looked at her palm incomprehensively.

"Dandruff, Sir?" Jorgan asked solicitously and run his hand over his head. The short fur was soft and shiny. "Never got the helmet hair myself, so can't help much."

Lt. Dur bent over in a fit of cough, the green vapors gathering around her in conspicuous puffs. "I think… I need—"

"A new shampoo, Sir?"

"A medpack… Fresh out…" Glean managed. "G…go… " The words were barely audible.

Sgt. Jorgan made a beeline for the medical droid. A buzz of a news terminal attracted his attention….

He returned to find Lt. Dur slammed against the railing in complete isolation still shrouded in green.

"Good news, SIR! You have a rakhghoul plague!" He reported.

Glean stared at him, coughing out fumes instead of words. But her eyes spoke volumes. _How's that good news, Sgt?!_

In response, Sgt. Jorgan stabbed a syringe into her neck and pushed the plunger to inject a bright purple liquid into her vein.

"You are going to live, Lieutenant," Aric said, propping Glean up, "but the droid said you'll be out of your best singing voice for a day or two."

/

Lord Becchino watched the meddling crowd impassively. It started with a green swirl of noxious gas. Then the victim clawed at her throat and erupted into violent cough. Finally, she fell apart.

Captain Quinn cut through the crowd on the Fleet, polite, but never allowing anything to swerve him off course.

"I have new data on Lt. Dur, My Lord," he said crisply when he finally made it to her.

"Does the contagion ravage the Republic as well?" Lord Becchino asked.

"Yes, My Lord," Captain Quinn responded in a neutral tone.

"Did you verify that Dur is dead?" Becchino continued conversationally.

"She made a swift recovery, My Lord. Along with as astounding number of people. I must again bring to your attention the miraculous vaccine—"

Becchino forestalled him with an upraised palm. "I am Sith. My blood will protect me from this… fungus. No needles."

"Very well, My Lord," Captain Quinn sighed. "By your leave, My Lord?"

"Dismissed," Lord Becchino barked out and turned away to continue her observations.

Captain Malavai Quinn moved fast, and stabbed the syringe full of the bright purple liquid into the muscular neck. He made a quick prayer it went into the vein, not the artery, a prayer he did not finish. Becchino backhanded him hard. The syringe fell to the floor, and Becchino crashed it with her boot. Empty syringe. _Good._

He bowed with a muted: "Blood purity does not offer a sufficient resistance to Rakghoul Plague. Your are now properly inoculated, My Lord." Blood dripped to the chest of his neat gray uniform. He pressed a pristine handkerchief to his nose, soaking up the red. "A pity they did not quite get around to developing a suppository."

"Pack up," Lord Becchino growled. "Summon Pierce. We will go to Tattooine." And she marched towards the ship hangar in furious, purposeful strides.


	6. This Little Piggie Went to Market

/

This Little Piggie Went to Market

"Sgt. Jorgan?" Lt. Dur squinted. Despite her height, she could not see above the heads of the crowd. In fact, she felt decidedly small. Now, the Fleet always bustled with activity, but this was ludicrous.

"JORGAN?!"

No answer.

She gave up on Jorgan. A long-overdue move, to think of it. "Sgt. Dorne?"

No answer.

By the Coruscant's winged three-headed cockroaches! If _Dorne_ is not where she is assigned to be by the Section 3. of the Reg… whatever Number, things had gone to the wampas!

"TREEEK!?"

Hopeless.

Glean Dur wandered a little, just enough to get tired of being bumped this way and that by the excited crowd carrying chairs, flags, huge crates and other furniture. A _furniture_ sale?! On the Carrick Force-blazed Station?! The only piece of furniture Glean personally needed was a non-thorny patch of ground to sit on while she cleaned her new cannon. Now, that was an idea! She promptly sat down by the railing and a dreamy smile spread over her features. It was a very, very, _very_ beautiful cannon.

"SIR! Sgt. Jorgan reporting in, SIR!"

"JORGAN!" Glean cried out, "I've started a MIA note to your folks."

Jorgan snorted. "I'd like to read it someday, Sir."

"Don't get torn up, Jorgan," Glean looked up at her closest associate and repressed a smile. "I put my name down on the bottom of the standard form. Just like a Summer Festival card."

"Your sig alone could make a grown-up man weep, Sir," the Cathar said earnestly. Too earnestly.

"REPORT!" Glean yelled, suppressing the familiarity.

/

Becchino snarled and lifted her hand. The flow of air to his windpipes got cut off. Malavai waited out his body's reflexive convulsions and willed away the darkness of a faint. Only just. She released him slowly, and Captain Quinn wavered on his feet, clutching the wall. He won't kneel like this, out of weakness, without _intending to_. Behind the window, the endless Kaas rain fell in slanted strands.

"Good morning, My Lord." He did not inquire after the score of the Huttball match. It was written on her not-so proud brow, give or take two or three points in favor of the other team. That's in addition to her cheerful greeting.

"Have you reviewed the Dur files, Lieutenant? What is she doing?" Lord Becchino asked quietly.

"Of course, and as far as I can tell, nothing, My Lord. She stands by the terminal on the Fleet, and had been for days. I have checked and the observation device was not tempered with. Her banking records show a significant inflow of credits, however."

Becchino smiled. "Credits. Good. Consider her out of the game for now. Wealth chasing does it to lesser races."

She looked around the apartment and took in chairs and shelves stacked close to the walls in a random pattern, and a crookedly laid carpet. "Did you have to defend our home base against a squad of womp rats, Lieutenant?"

"No, My Lord. Lt. Pierce and Broonmark had a home-decorating contest. I have locked away your suit before they could furnish it, My Lord."

"Well done, Lieutenant," Becchino admitted. "I trust you secured a bed for it?"

Captain Quinn bowed in response. It was a good bed; he tested it. Without further ado, Lord Becchino strode to her room, and a few moments later Pierce thundered in the same direction, giving Malavai a disgusting smirk before disappearing around the corner. Quinn secured the doors with a complex password, poured himself a glass of Corellian rose and put a recording on the holo. He had every intention of watching a certain Huttball match over and over and over again….


	7. Bring 'em In

/AN: Fooling around with Bounty Hunting Event. Kindda...

**Bring 'em In.**

"Sir, the mission is on Nar Shaddaa." Sgt. Jorgan greeted Lt. Dur when she entered the mess hall.

"Your point, Sgt.?" Glean sighed, pouring kaf. The ship's holo announced that they have established the orbit.

"We will lose valuable time fighting off idiots shoving money down your cannon and asking what club you perform in, Sir," Jorgan explained between sips from his own mug.

"My cannon? Why?!" Glean asked dumbfounded and pressed the weapon closer to her chest. She wouldn't let some stupid civ to jeopardize the fine-tuned-"

"You lack the customary receptacle, Sir," Jorgan's slanted eyes twinkled merrily. He must be on his second or third mug…. Glean felt distinctively at a disadvantage and hurried to rectify it. She promptly burned her tongue.

"Explain, Sgt," Lt. Dur said sourly, suppressing an unwarrior-like ouch.

"Cleavage, Sir," Sgt. Jorgan obliged. Lt. Dur slammed the mug down, and the life-giving liquid spilled on the counter. Well, at least C2-N2 will have a good start to his day.

Glean turned towards the shiny supply container. It reflected a too tall scowling Mirialian in a tight bodysuit. She turned around, and cranked her neck. Certainly, the black plastoid looked more of a second skin than armor, emphasizing the strong muscles from the backpack down to the heels. Compared to the frontal view, her backside had one advantage. It lacked the glowing patches in the completely inappropriate places.

"It's high performance armor, Sgt. Jorgan," Lt. Dur argued feebly, "The GSI's latest."

"I know it. You know it. The rest of Nar Shaddaa doesn't," Jorgan said reasonably. "Taking into account the local mindset, Sir, we cannot expect the civs to appreciate the battle capabilities of the suit over the… erm… outward appearances." Glean cringed. Stars, was she missing the yelling, hissing Lt. Jorgan she'd first come to know on Mantell?

"Suit up then, Sergeant!" Glean's hand went to the top clip. "We must use our resources in the most efficient way."

Sgt. Jorgan's opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He snapped it shut, and the pointy incisors bit into a thin lip, as the Cathar watched Lt. to remove… the backpack.

"On the other hand, if our bounty is a man, it will give us a tactical advantage, Sir," he finally managed.

"Which we'll lose the moment your ugly face comes into view," Lt. Dur responded crossly. "Wampa's breath, we are docking, Sgt. We'll play dress-up some other time. Move OUT, MOVE OUT!" She threw the backpack back on, and fastened the clips as she rushed down the stairs.

"It was my duty to make you aware of the potential danger, SIR!" Jorgan called after his CO, and hefted his cannon. "And this gal has been married. And serves in the military! Wampa's breath indeed…."

/

"…would have felled a rancor! The Lord, she didn't even flinch, just roared up a little, and crashed down from atop at the miserable wretch. And whoa! A killing blow! When two Sith really go at it, it's a beautiful thing…" Lt. Pierce laughed, and dropped into the armchair. "The carbofreeze… bah. That's for sissies," the big man's legs went up on the low table. Cpt. Quinn noticed, yet left uncommented the fact that the heavy boots pushed back the tray of delicate seafood and the eight carefully chosen dipping sauces. He also chose inaction in response to the pointed look that accompanied the word 'sissies'.

Vette giggled, gave Pierce thumbs up, and disappeared back into the cargo hold. Well, the child got her bedtime story. However, the savage, Broonmark, waddled over, obviously eager to get more details of the slaughter from his human alter-ego. Cpt. Quinn forestalled the shaggy mosquito, fully realizing he was risking a limb.

"I trust you have applied the advanced medpack I have supplied to the burns?" he asked Lt. Pierce mildly. Pierce frowned: "Some medpack, yes. The Lord doesn't have the patience for that sort of…"

Quinn whirled on his heels and stormed off. His steps slowed the closer he came to the doors of her room. At the doors, he came to a full stop.

His every instinct was against confronting a wounded beast.

His entire carrier tittered on the success of the wounded beast and being as close to her as was possible.

Behind the door 2V's flustered voice reported: "Master, you will be pleased to know that I have washed the blood away - Oh. More blood. My deepest apologies, Master, I will get right on with clea— Please, do not deact-"

The doors opened, and the hapless droid flew backwards, hit the opposite wall and sat there stunned. _Better him than I._ Quinn took a deep cleansing breath, and stepped into the wampas den… if only it was occupied by wampas!

The towering Sith was wrapped in a bloodied towel. Both sabers were momentarily out of her reach. _So far so good._ He dropped an emergency kolto bomb, coating Lord Becchino with the disinfecting, antisepticising, soothing, disorienting and (no denying it) stinky powder. One of Becchino's sabre's hilts jumped up into the air and into her fist. Not good.

"A wise move, My Lord," Quinn said bowing deeply, and slowly moved the other hilt to a chair. "You need to lie down."

"Get out!" Becchino scowled. "Stop wasting my time. I wanted the MK's yesterday. Prior to setting out to bring in that gangster-loving excuse for a Sith."

"And that is when I have delivered the entire order, My Lord. In fact, I have optimized a few things, and was able to stretch the materials to produce two surplus kits, now placed on the markets. If Lt. Pierce neglected to mention the package I have left in his care-"

Lord Becchino sat down heavily on the bed. Or masked a fall by sitting down. The hilt fell out of her grip and cluttered to the floor. Quinn peeled off the towel, to survey the bloody mess of shrapnel, skin, blood and puss. He nodded and said evenly: "I understand that you believe that managing our supplies is the best use of me, My Lord, but would I have been present in the field when you have confronted the said mastermind, the wound would not have been -" he opened up his med chest and sterilized his hands: "badly infected."

He started working a smaller kolto sprayer: "I will have to transport you to the med bay, My Lord. Are you ambulatory, or should I carry you?"

"_You_? Carry _me_? Ctn. Quinn you must have inhaled more kolto than good for you," Becchino started laughing groggily, drugs taking effect fast, but not quite masking the intended insult. Still abusive, but not physically so. An improvement. He couldn't help but being impressed though (and, to tell the truth, relieved) when Lord Becchino pushed herself on her feet, and stumbled to the bay uncomplaining and under her own hyperdrive. To be honest, carrying the pounds and pounds of the muscular Sith might have proven problematic, and calling Pierce… or Broonmark… Ctn. Quinn couldn't afford that just now when the odds were stacking in his favor.

"Dur?" Becchino asked, stretched on the bed in the medbay. The facial ridges drooped now, and the rest of her face started to slack as the painkillers took effect. "Alive and well," Quinn replied, and his voice acquired a sing-song manner, "as you shall be, My Lord, after a good sleep."

"No needles…" she rasped.

"Would I dare defy your explicit orders, My Lord?" Quinn pulled a mask over her face deftly. Gas hissed. A dose sufficient for an average rancor. "Sleep, My Lord, I'll tell you all about Dur on the morrow." Becchino could not move, or talk now, but she made a fair attempt at burning a hole through his chest with a glare. Quinn stood firm watching her eyes grow dim and close then mimicked rocking a cradle. _Hush little baby… _

He went about his work. It was going to be a long and difficult night, but Quinn had to suppress an uncouth desire to whistle as he cleansed, removed, stitched and patched. With luck, the abomination hated the experience more than he did, and that would spell the end to Lt. Pierce's tenure in the field.


	8. Valentine Day Kaleidoscope

_AN: Because I felt like it: __ Three Kisses!_

**1\. His Ordered Mind**

"My Lord, I am prepared to administer the requested tonic," Cpt. Quinn reported. He congratulated himself on keeping the quiver completely out of his voice.

Lord Becchino ignored him in her accustomed fashion. She stood tall, arms folded behind her back, eyes on the pyramid's top dominating the poison-green landscape of Yavin IV.

Malavai smiled thinly: "My _Lord Wrath, _am I dismissed?"

"The more things change, the more they stay the same," Lord Becchino said. "My title is not meaningless."

"I certainly hope so, My Lord. And I shall do my uttermost to help you quell any fool who disagrees," Cpt. Quinn nodded. The bruises on his neck hurt when he did it. Well, he refrained from healing it for this very reason. To remind him that Lord Becchino did not strangle him when she should have.

"Thank you, Captain," Lord Becchino looked away from the Emperor's cradle. Looked at him, instead. She squinted, as if she were seeing him for the first time. A man did not have to be a genius military strategist to see that opening. He seized it. The strangest thing, she wasn't taller than him. They were of a height. Their lips were perfectly aligned.

By some reason it appealed to his ordered mind.

**2\. All Wrong**

Ashara did not do nearly enough pacing to calm down when he knew, and came to see her. "The Force willed your pain," he'd said reaching for her in the same inevitable way a weed stretches out towards the sun. "Allow me to soothe the hurt of the vision."

She slapped his hand away: "Not mine. Yours. I saw you suffering. On a horrible planet called Rishi."

"Then it shall come to pass," Ruvvoy responded evenly. "Do not trouble yourself with it any longer."

"Like it came to pass that you sit on the Dark Council, _Darth Imperius_? Did the Force will that?" Before she'd even finished, she knew it was all pointless.

His answer was predetermined, and always, always, always the same.

"All Chains will be broken, Ashara. The Force will set us free. Through me, or through another. It matters not."

Of course.

How she hated him for that.

"Leave, Darth," she'd ordered. Ruvvoy touched her cheek and obeyed, his heavy robes rustling as he was walking away.

The doors closed, and Ashara leaned against it, touched her fingertip to where he'd just touched her, and kissed it.

Then she grabbed the sabres and slashed at the training dummy: "We'll see about it coming to pass, Force! Don't you think he'd suffered enough?" Another vicious slash. "Back off, back OFF!"

She'd almost heard an incorporeal laughter that sounded suspiciously like Zash's, and hit harder and harder.

How she loved him.

**3\. An Appetite**

The doors closed behind Vette, cutting off the escape route. No light, but the lilac glow of Dromund Kaas out of the window. She stared at Yvolgar's prone form. Armed. Armored. Still.

"My Lord," she said, holding the tray with food before her, "Long time ago, I've promised your mom to spoon-feed you, should you ever miss a meal. Tell you the truth, never thought it would come to that."

Yvolgar opened his eyes, but did not move. Great, a staring contest with a Sith. Just what she needed.

Vette tossed her head, breaking the eye contact: "Malavai was a snitch. So it happens. But the rest of us are loyal to you to the end. My Lord, isn't that enough to… "

_to… what? What is Broonmark's loyalty worth? Jaesa's? Pierce's? Hers?_

She finished lamely: "…to get your appetite back?"

"Vette," Yvolgar sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "You shot him."

"And I'd shoot him again. This time with no stupid shield generators to save the pale son of a Hutt! Only Jaesa told me you wanted him alive. And that you weren't eating. Or talking. Blazes, Yv… I mean, my Lord… I mean… Just blasted… eat!"

"If Lord Baras put the screws on you, Vette, if he pressed the buttons of that shock collar, and told you to kill me, what would you have done?" Yvolgar asked intently.

"Died," she shrugged matter-of-factly. "Will you eat now?"

Yvolgar lifted a hand, and the tray was ripped out of Vette's hands. It hit the wall splattering the food all over the corner. _Hail thee, my all-powerful Force Lord!_

Vette threw her now empty hands up in the air: "I did promise your mom! Erm, my Lord."

She started for him, fully intending to kick him.

The Sith sat up: "Another step, and I'll forget all the good reasons why I should not be making love to you."

Vette stopped short and made an effort to snap her mouth shut. After the jaw and the tongue became fully manageable again, she attended to her legs. It took another moment to get that connection re-established. Vette took a very measured step forward, a dancer's step: "Good reasons? Do tell, my Lord."

"You… you were my slave," Yvolgar said uncomfortably, "I freed you. You are understandably grateful and—"

Vette guffawed: "Why, the good looks and largess, and the whole honorable champion thing aside, there is nothing whatsoever going for you. You've _always_ went for gratitude and pity! Uh-huh. A good one, My Lord."

She took another step forward.

"You are my friend. The only friend I've really had since I was a child, since the Force…" Yvolgar blurted lowering his head.

She rolled her eyes and stepped forward again: "Glad to hear that. I was worried you were transferring your whole filial thing to me. _That_ would have been awkward."

"And," Yvolgar paused, and his eyes went up and found hers, "And, I loved Malavai."

She bit her lip and raked her brain. There was nothing there but the Major Hurt bait: "Do you? Still?"

"No," Yvolgar replied with a frightening finality. She felt chilled to the bone. _Just like that. He'll always be like that. On or off._ A single miss-step, and his heart will be lost to her. But one more step forward, and maybe she'll have it to lose.

She was about to take it, that last tiny step, when Yvolgar leaned forward and pulled her to sit in his lap.

"Stay," he asked thickly. "You won't regret it. I promise."

"Mom's warned me about all men saying that," Vette teased him gently.

"_I _promise," Yvolgar repeated, his eyes so earnest it hurt.

"Don't need to," she whispered back, and finally, after all that time waiting, and hoping and giving up, her lips grazed his cheek to find his mouth.


End file.
